I spent the better part of the afternoon picking out an outfit that said “casual, per your request, but a very professional casual, don’t you think?” In the car on the way, I had a brief panic attack about whether I should ask the receptionist for Mr. Jones, or whether I was confusing myself by thinking of Señor Jones from my Pimsleur Spanish CDs. While I was waiting in the office, I stared at a window decal that said, “NO DEALS. Hard crime does hard time!” and wondered if I was in the right place. I pulled a hangnail and my finger bled. I freaked out for a minute about the fact that I might get blood on his hand when I shook it.

In the large gap between my last post and the present, I graduated college, went to moot court nationals, moved to Memphis, and found a job waiting tables to make that “skrilla” (as Neil would say). At last count, I’ve applied for nine receptionist/file clerking positions via Craigslist with no call back and sent some blind applications to the largest firms in Memphis to find a job at a real law firm. The idea was that, living with the boyfriend attending U of M law, I wouldn’t have to pay rent right away and I would have access to the largest metropolitan area in Tennessee for my job hunt.